


we some anybody killers

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, M/M, Mental Instability, Movie: The Purge: Election Year, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9837092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: they're an hour into purge night and jared's bored.





	

**Author's Note:**

> uh. heed the warnings? i've never posted a "heed the warnings" before, but, i don't feel like this is too bad, which is probably a sign that it's well past inappropriate.
> 
> i watched the purge: election year, and here the fuck we are. apologies for disturbed sensitivities, y'all.

He wants the cherub.

It's intensely vain and self-serving, but Jared’s always, always honest, and most usually with himself, as he's the only one that counts.

They're only an hour in.

That leaves quite a bit of unaccounted time, and Jared spends it wandering the annals of the Ministry, ducking under cobwebs his father would loathe finding.

He’s supposed to be sitting with his mother and Reynolds, his present publicist and sometimes-friend, but the cameras aren’t here yet and Jared’s been _old_ for so long now.

He arrives at the Holding almost unconsciously, and he snorts at his accidental destination. He hasn’t been down here before Ceremony since he was what, sixteen, seventeen?

It loses its allure the first few times, and Jared’s attended the yearly Mass since his father decided he was old enough, ugly enough to need cleansing.

It rankles, that he’s got to spend most of his year suffering under the weight of guilt and sin, but he shakes himself and his lapel, in order.

The room is blissfully silent, or so it appears unless you’ve got the access code. It’s Jared’s birthday and he taps it in, blithely strolls within.

It’s like he’s been tossed back ten years.

He blinks away the dusky haze of his surroundings and follows the pristine line of bodies.

They’re all trussed up in white, probably Michael’s doing, to be honest. Their arms are wrenched behind them, reminiscent of hanging-torture.

They’re not really in pain, not much, Jared knows, and he tucks his hair behind his ear as he surveys the wares.

His father offered him his personal choice but Jared hasn’t really cared who they provide him in eight or more years.

It’s always the same. Others are permitted to remain in their pews for the proceedings, but Jared’s got to climb on stage, next to the altar, just so he can get more fucking blood on a new suit his mother bought for him.

He’s not in the best of moods.

The sacraments flinch away, lips tugged backwards in a grotesque parody-smile. One on the far right is sobbing, choking on the wet film of cloth and snot, and Jared’s face wrinkles in disgust.

He’s got the urge to gut her right here, right now, and he only refrains because he knows his father would be displeased.

As it is, he can’t curb anything, doesn’t bother resisting the urge to tell her to _shut the fuck up._

She startles at the sound; the only noise thus far has been the labored breathing of the collective, and the wing-tipped tap of Jared’s shoes on marble.

There are four that are already bloody, and several have raised lines on the inside of their forearms, necessary scars.

Jared ignores them each, and he watches as they seem to sag in abject relief.

Is it possible that they really don’t understand?

Jared doesn’t subscribe to the whole Founding Fathers schtick, not like his father, who believes in the validity of the cause with the white-hot intensity of a pragmatic racist.

He does understand natural selection, though.

There are about thirty to forty sacraments in all, give or take, and Jared’s rounding the end of the crescent when he sees him.

He’s tucked in the back, which is an unbelievable sin, and his eyes are almost sunken into a malnourished face.

It’s an emaciated beauty, sharp lines and cheekbones. The boy is heaving, chest rising and falling with what Jared hopes is fear.

He bursts into motion, much more focused than the meandering steps he’d been making thus far, and the room makes muted, startled sounds that make Jared that much angrier.

“You’re not even out there yet!” He yells at the whole, eyes focused on the prize, shrouded by dirt. What a corner.

“What are you going to sound like when you’re on stage?”

Jared uses two broad palms to knock a hole in the human sea and the clink of metal apertures against one another sends everything into a tailspin.

The man he shoved is trembling, so violently that Jared can tell he just pissed himself.

The thought is unimaginable, and while Jared’s mildly amused, he’s mostly perturbed that this _thing_ is getting in the way of what he’s after.

The backhand takes his crowd by surprise, casual violence he’d think they’d be accustomed to.

If not now, then for certain, later.

The man tips, the metal bars clinkling into the matched pairs near him. His entire head ricochets, and he bludgeons himself against the headrest.

There’s a slick crack and cherub’s eyes widen so far that his sanded eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

It’s a carnage that lasts a few seconds at most, and Jared cocks his head at the indent in the man’s temple, not severe enough to kill but definitely unwarranted.

There’s a hush, and it’s jarring in its intensity because Jared’s heard of uprisings and he doesn’t really care to be at the center of one.

They’re holding for him, and cherub’s cheek is dusted, fine sheen of red-speckles teetering on the bridge of that nose.

His mouth is raw and wet, stretched obscenely around his gag, and Jared spares an appreciative glance for it before he wonders how badly it must hurt.

“Hold still,” he whispers, feels the woman to him shiver compulsively.

Cherub’s eyes squint shut and Jared’s long elbows are brushing up against collarbones and foreheads and the gag falls back around Cherub’s neck.

The boy closes his mouth experimentally, shudders underneath Jared’s heavy hand. His five fingers are digging into the boy’s shoulder and he can rub the edge of his palm against the prominent knob of bone.

“Better, huh?”

Jared doesn’t really expect an answer; he’s not the sort of guy that people express a willingness to speak to.

He can see that concave chest heaving, flat underneath the unforgiving fabric of his sweater.

Jared tightens his grip with the intent of tugging Cherub’s restraint forward, through the mass of sacraments, and he makes his first sound of the evening, a choked off gurgle.

“P--please,” he says, bites down on his lower lip instantaneously. He traps that gorgeous sound all up inside and Jared drags him through with less of the care than he meant at the start.

His arms are still bound behind him, strain on ligaments and marrow, and he’s hunched forward in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain.

“Jesus,” Jared mutters, almost to himself, watches in interest as glass dilates.

His audience is turned, as much as they can be, toward the spectacle, and Jared doesn’t care for them to see his gift.

“Let’s get you a little closer to the action,” he says, continues with his one-sided conversation.

The wheels stick as he maneuvers Cherub to the exit.

-

“Is that better?” Jared repeats, ducks down just a bit so he can catch Cherub’s eye.

The boy isn’t a day over seventeen, if that, and it cranks Jared’s gears in all the best ways. He’s rubbing at his own limbs, flopping them around in an effort to restore feeling, and Jared just wants him slick with whatever’s available so he can sink downlow.

“Am I next?” Cherub says quietly, doesn’t meet Jared’s gaze. It’s not out of shyness, Jared thinks, but he wants to see what those eyes look like where it’s not so dim.

“For what, baby?”

It’s calculated, and it works, Cherub looks up in indignation and Jared catches his chin right between forefinger and thumb.

“Speak up, now.”

“I’m Jensen,” Cherub breathes, unsettling in the quiet cadence of his voice. “And I asked you if I’m next to be Purged.”

Jared snorts, reluctantly releasing skin.

Jensen.

“I saved you,” Jared says with false magnanimity.

Jensen doesn’t back away, even though he looks like he’d like nothing more than to do just that. “Saved how?” He says, firm. “For later?”

Jared guffaws, loosens the bow of his tie.

“For anything I goddamn want,” Jared says, spares no thought for niceties. “I’ve got Level Ten Clearance and I’m here to share that,” he pauses, “with you.”

Jensen shakes his head. “No. No, they came out and they picked us. They picked four of us right up near Sal’s and they put. They threw that bag on my head and we kicked--” he hauls in a deep breath and Jared admires the blush of his skin.

“Did you fight?” Jared asks curiously, and Jensen does the eye-thing again.

“Did I--what the _fuck_ are you on?” he bellows, slightly mellow, under the circumstances.

“You didn’t win,” Jared says, gestures at the chapel Jared’s taken them to. It’s below ground, and if Jared strains, he can hear the preliminal orchestra playing upstairs.

“So what was the point?” Jared smiles, and Jensen curls his arms around himself, accentuates the trim taper of his dying waist.

“To not be a party favor,” Jensen says, dull from his last shine. “I just wanted to wait it out. They killed Sal,” he adds, an afterthought.

Jared thinks he knows the spot Jensen’s referring to. It’s a flower-shop back behind East and Turnbull and Jensen should’ve known better than to think he’d be safe there.

That’s where They hunt.

Jared feels strange with the confusion tightening his bones.

“Well then,” he says at last, when Jensen’s shrunk into himself even further, thin wrists rubbed raw.

“Do you want to be a guest?”

-

Jared’s not sure what he’s doing, only that he wants to do it.

He’s twenty-seven, he’s a Congressman and he made partner just before his life trajectory took a decidedly Padalecki-senior slant.

Jeff’s dead from Purge-last, and this year his father’s making sure they pay in spades.

Jared can’t say he’s averse, remembers receiving the severed fingers, hair, and dick, in order, for weeks afterwards.

He kept them all until his mother begged that he throw them out. Take them away.

He stored them in a downtown lockbox until the city complained of the smell.

He still remembers the shape of his brother’s cock, flushed, somehow warm, like it had been priority shipping.

Tilted. Wilted.

Jensen’s before him, one step higher on the stairs, just so Jared can keep that spine and ass in view.

He’s stiff, understandably.

Jared winds both hands around his hipbones and Jensen squeaks. He tries to wind that baby-bird neck backwards, but Jared stills him with a ten-edged stab.

“Shh,” he admonishes, motions to the crack in the curtain.

They’re just behind the altar; the Bishop would be loitering right around here if he weren’t in the audience with the rest of the NFA.

Jared’s father is off to the side, in deference to the Minister, and Jensen begins to tremble, fine-frisson of horror.

Jared wonders if he’s seen them before.

“Blessed be the New Founding Fathers,” the Minister begins, fervor honing his voice into a microphone.

Jared hums alongs to the cadence, pays more attention to the slick grip he’s got on Jensen.

Jensen’s fists are small by his sides and Jared leans down so he can lick up the side of Jensen’s neck, breathe in the salty flesh.

Jensen huffs out his air in a great rush and tilts his chin to the side.

“W-what,” he tries, but Jared bites down, savage, and his left hand cups Jensen’s scream in the palm.

“That’s mine, now,” Jared says, licks at the wound and feels around for Jensen’s rabbit heartbeat.

“The first of the night,” The Minister offers, and Jared lifts his head, rests his chin on Jensen’s crown.

The boy’s trembling, can’t staunch it, and Jared knows he’s tried.

The apparatus is wheeled stretcher-style, and the sacrament is struggling, mostly silent but terrified, judging by the tears.

“Thank Dolores for her service,” the Minister commands, and Jared peers out into the crowd, watches the hazy line of pale, white, wealth mimic the words.

“It’s fucking sick,” Jared says, laughing, pressing his chuckles right into that slightly dirty scent of boy.

Jensen leans back against him, body alight.

“You think this is fucked up?” He says, more careful than he was at the start.

“Of course,” Jared says, offhand. “Murder is not a religion. It’s committed in the name of it,” he says, “but that’s like worshipping the tree on Christmas.”

Jensen’s hands curl tentatively around Jared’s, squeezes them lifeless.

“Why do you come? Why are we watching this?”

Jared nibbles at the plaster-cast of his own teeth in the edge of Jensen’s neck. Jensen shivers with the latent pain and Jared hushes him, so soft.

The Ministerial aid comes forth, gangly and long, robe of many colors.

Michael is chapped and wild-eyed, and Jared watches him raise the blade with muted interest.

“Jesus. Jesus.” Jensen says, pulls one knuckle up to his mouth.

Jared watches the gleam connect, artery splay, and the blood lances out to strike Michael in the eye, the throat, right into his open wound of a mouth.

“This belongs to you!” the Minister screams, reaching a fever-pitch that can’t be matched by the audience.

Michael’s collar is so damp it’s sagging on one side and Dolores is still gurgling, familiar death rattle in her chest. She’s leaking out of every crevice, new and old, and her neck is spliced in unsettling lines, diagonal.

Jared kisses Jensen’s head.

“Is this nicer?”

-

They can’t stick around for the show, even though Jared really enjoys the rumpled way Wall Street bankers squeal when they carve into their first flesh of the evening.

There’s something too orderly about Purge Mass, something that makes him miss the riot of the streets, the masks.

Jeff wore the same one every year, pinstripe tie for accent.

Jared hides Jensen behind him as they cart in the remaining thirty, wailing as much as they can in their confines.

They don’t acknowledge Jared, probably can’t tell him from one murderer to the next.

They’re going to be parceled off to their respective bidders for the evening, and over the years, Jared has seen some real shining examples of creativity.

As it is, he ushers Jensen out of a side door, blankets him in the breadth of his body and the night.

“Can we. Where are we going?” Jensen asks, strangely silent for all the gore he’s witnessed.

“Anywhere,” Jared says, then laughs at how cryptic he sounds. “I want to see the city. I haven’t purged in the city in years. I want the blood on my hands,” he says, practical, and Jensen’s face whitens.

“You’re. You’re a sick motherfucker. You’re fucked up. Do you know that? The NFA--they’ve always been fucked in the head. But you’re. Jesus,” Jensen says, quivering with rage.

“Is that why you’re gonna bend over for me in a little bit?” Jared says, mostly amused but somewhat livid because this night unleashes his thin rein on fury like no other.

“You’re gonna take me on all fours, and you’d better take _that,_ ” Jared says, one hand coming down to encircle both wrists, “as the truth.”

Jensen eyes are doe-big, startlingly gentle in such an inexpressive face, and he bends down the four or so inches needed to suck that lower lip into a kiss.

It knocks Jensen off balance, sends his redistributed body weight into Jared’s brawn. He nips down until he draws blood, sucks it off the surface and the prys Jensen’s mouth open with his tongue just to spit the mixture back in.

Jensen makes a sound like a groan--maybe a wail, and then his own tongue dips forward, grinds jagged hips against Jared’s slacks.

Jared laps the salt right up, and when he draws back for air Jensen’s mouth is slutty bruised, bleeding sluggishly, and Jared’s got the taste of the sea.

“You’re goin’ straight to Hell,” Jensen breathes, rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand.

-

Jared steals the masks from an open air mart.

Jensen gets a masquerade mask, complete with white feather, and Jared’s is a marionette.

He can’t find the one Jeff likes best.

There’s a burning body slumped against a fire hydrant, and Jensen blinks up at Jared, he can tell, even from behind the fabric.

“Performance art?” Jensen asks, and Jared laughs so long he’s unsurprised when they find them.

Jared’s got clearance but these fucks don’t know that and Jensen stands just behind him, flanking but not cowering.

They’re children, maybe a few years older than Jensen himself, drunk and rowdy. They’re wrapped in Christmas lights, most of the bulbs dimmed by whatever bloodbath they’ve just left.

“Gahtdamb,” one says, surly and southern and Jared just cannot. Wait.

He peels the knife up from his dress sock just before the first lunges, broken beer bottle as a makeshift shank.

Jared’s got speed, sobriety and years of experience and it’s no match at all. His blade, expensive, Swedish steel, goes up through the chin, severs through the floor of the mouth and through brain matter, all with a crunching gurgle that makes the other two hoot in appreciation.

“Fuck me! Well, fuck me up! Businessman can throw a punch!” They’re disorderly, not Jared’s favorites, but, beggars.

He’s lost sight of Jensen, regrettable, but Jensen creeps up behind him, face inscrutable behind the white film.

It’s going to look spectacular when the night is over.

Jensen’s shivering, quaking, really, and Jared falls back, makes to stand in front.

The second one is leaner, more slight on his feet, and Jared makes an aborted lunge, but somehow, Jensen is quicker, hands dart out and he’s grabbing his would-be killer by the nuts, dragging them down toward the gravel while the rest of the man struggles backwards, away.

His scream is otherworldly, barbaric, and Jared laughs over it, shocked into amusement.

Jensen keeps tugging, even when it’s clear the man is losing air, consciousness and hope, and there’s an audible ripping sound and Jared knows Jensen’s just detached scrotum from testicle.

The man hits the ground with a loud smack, convulsing, breathing through his mouth with sightless eyes. His pants are darkening swiftly with his own life, piss and red and Jared can’t look away.

The third isn’t laughing anymore, already turned tail as Jensen literally brought the second to his knees.

It takes Jensen a long while to stand again.

**two hours remaining**

They’re passing in front of the football stadium, Jensen somehow more splattered than Jared even though he got the lion's share of kicks in.

“Are you taking me back?” Jensen says softly, hunches over for air.

They’ve been running for a long time.

“Where, baby?” Jared soothes; he’s a romantic.

“To Purge Mass. To the NFA. Sal’s.” Jensen cocks his head up, tears his mask away and Jared follows the dried crust of blood down his left cheek.

“Now why would I do that,” Jared laughs, “when you could just whore yourself out again?”

Jensen’s still got stiff palms braced on even stiffer knees, and his mouth is slanted open on a breath. He pauses, infinitesimal, and Jared can’t rightly see him past the shroud of his own mask.

“It’s harder than you think,” Jensen says, spine cracking as he drags himself to full height.

“They’re sending less and less to Turnbull,” Jensen says, and then, in the same breath, “do you remember it? It looked just like this,” he breathes, docile and beautiful, Jared’s blood-bride.

Jared rears upright, takes a look at the sky and the decrepit alley surrounding the otherwise pristine arena.

City’s pride and joy.

“There was a full moon then,” Jared says, just to be contrary, and Jensen grins, a real one, the first of this whole night.

“You haven’t seen a full moon yet,” he retorts, cheesy and so grateful and starving that Jared can finally eat him alive.

They’re stumbling towards the center alley before Jared can get his bearings, and Jensen pops open his slacks with a sick little shudder.

“Oh c’mon, c’mon,” Jensen breathes, encircles his pale little-boy fist around the thick violet of Jared’s dick.

“Put it in me. Fucking fuck me. C’mon. I been waiting so long.”

Jared laughs, sounds strangled, even to him.

“Right here. Right now.” Jensen’s not even looking him, all eyes for the slope of fucking cock in his fist, fat and dewy with precome and now Jensen spits on it, leans right down to lap it back up with those beautiful, blood-rimmed eyes.

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Jared says, head snapping back to connect dully to brick.

“You gonna do me?” Jensen says, squirming in those oversized clothes, squirming his way to get filled.

“Maybe if you shut the fuck up for once,” Jared says, but he’s breathless and he’s dragging holey sweater and too-big jeans down too-skinny thighs and Jensen’s just this side of starved, model-thin, on the edge of being grotesque.

He’s right on the slope of dangerously beautiful and he knows it, tilts that red-tipped cock out, all shiny and proud, opens those porcelain thighs wider and he’s so shining against the moon, drip-dried and sinful.

His split-open mouth is dripping again and it falls onto a prominent collarbone, complete edges and wounds and Jared grabs him by the bruises he already placed on hips.

“Bend the fuck over. Gimme that hole,” he says, not angry but all used up and Jensen follows suit, eager and wanton and this is the cleanest thing that’ll happen in this city tonight.

He presses Jensen up and against, nipples scraping raw against exposed brick and holds him in place, palm to the back of his head, cheek dragging uncomfortably.

Jensen’s not crying.

Not yet.

Jared lines up, fully clothed, Jensen’s bloody toes peeping out in the last sliver of light, drives home so violent that he can feel everything rip, looks down to see the instantaneous tear of Jensen’s pinkest, softest wound.

Jensen screams, sounds exactly like he’s dying, and that’ll bring the hounds.

He’s crying now, great big, wet sobs, scrambling for some kind of purchase against his favorite wall and Jared hasn’t stopped. He barely launched into started.

It’s slick now, burning hot, slippery glide of claret and the precome Jared copiously leaks. The mixture is running down Jensen’s thighs, and Jared laughs, unfettered.

“Now it’s _just_ like then,” he says, heavy with exertion.

“N-no,” Jensen asserts, eyes rolled back in his head, cheek bleeding too, utterly raw and exposed.

“He was there. We did it--we did it over there,” Jensen continues, arches up onto tiptoes as Jared screws his dick in deep, lets it flutter in Jensen’s ruined asshole.

“He wasn’t dead yet, sweetheart,” Jared reminds him, reaches down to slap Jensen’s legs wider, makes him accomodate. He allows one hand to slap at Jensen’s bag, heavy-handed, and then he smacks Jensen’s dick so hard he can feel it wilt in his grasp.

“Oh! Fuck! Jesus _fucking Christ--Ja--Jared,”_ Jensen begs, “do it--do that again--do it again--I want that--fuckfuck,” he groans, unintelligble.

Jared alternates slapping and fucking, gut-grind combined with bruises and he’s gonna blow before he finishes the story.

“You’re such a giver, baby,” Jared breathes, presses close to Jensen’s ear, runs the digits of his free hand in the spoiled blood sticking to Jensen’s sweat-warmed quads.

“So good for both of us, huh? Came and let me fuck you bloody and then you sat right down on him, right down--” Jared says, grinds hard and groans, bites down on that same spot he inflicted earlier.

Jensen’s eyes are swollen he’s crying so hard, but he flattens his palms and shoves his ass back, obscene in the ugliest way.

“He didn’t--his fingers were already gone,” Jensen says, no-air. “He couldn’t hold on--Jared, fuck me, fuck--he couldn’t hang onto me--” Jensen says, and Jared makes a sound of agreement.

“But you saved everything for me,” Jared says, and God. There’s nothing for a love like this.

“Come inside me,” Jensen says, pleads with the last of his strength.

Jared doesn’t need to be told twice, empties himself and adds to the mixture, tugs on Jensen’s balls so hard they must develop sympathy pains.

“Gonna let me tear these off too?” Jared says, high on endorphins, still pumping lazily.

“God--god yeah, take ‘em,” Jensen says, eyes rolled back in his head. “T-ttake my dick too, s’yours, all yours, fuck, you bastard, shit--Jesus,” he says, and Jared alternates from slapping to stroking and Jensen can’t tell what’s next but he comes all the same, splashes the wall even though his dick is swollen and chafed from the abuse.

Jared pulls out fast, lives for the broken wail Jensen makes at the pain, and Jensen never, ever disappoints.

He’s bleeding from every orifice, and Jared doesn’t even have to motion to his dick before Jensen’s on indigo-knees, slurping at the excess on his cock, cheeks hollowed from his best meal.

Jensen’s mouth is more violence than flesh when he finishes, and his legs are so wide when he sinks onto his haunches that Jared can clearly see his cream, the shower-flow of red.

It’s got him close to busting again and Jensen sways from his position.

Reynolds has called him fourteen times tonight, he thinks, tilts his head up to suck in all the clean air he can. His mother is frantic. His father is incensed, but unsurprised.

Jensen is Jensen.

“Where are you gonna be tomorrow?” Jensen says, most of the air punched out of him by Jared’s dick.

“In my office,” Jared says, tucks his dick away and zips up, even as Jensen’s hands come up to fiddle greedily with his buckle.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Jensen says, soft and low, that truthful tone that Jared’s ever only heard directed at him.

Jared readjusts his tie, leans down to snatch his mask up from the ground. It’s been stepped on and it’s more blood than plastic, but it’ll do to bring him home.

“Then don’t,” Jared starts, whistles shortly as he straightens himself as best he can. Jensen hasn’t moved from his spot, still leaking with the reverberation of Jared’sJared’sJared’s and it makes him sick for love of it.

He turns away from the stadium; he lives in the opposite direction.

“You know how the post office works.”

  
  



End file.
